


The House Rules

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [3]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Heterosexual Sex, Married Couple, Married Sex, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 05:37:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1539608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Renji and friends speculate over the meaning of Rukia’s gift and invitation for tea.  Rukia learns that the Kuchiki Family has a few secrets.  Byakuya and Hisana discuss political maneuvering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The House Rules

**The House Rules**

Renji stretches his tired muscles as he enters the corridor.  He has been up almost two days straight, and what he wouldn’t give just to go to _sleep_.  His eyes sting.  His muscles ache.  His head pounds.  He grows lousy with exhaustion; it slows his cognitive functions and deadens his reflexes.  The antidote, he tells himself, is just a few meters away.  Just a few paces down the winding hall is his room and, most importantly, his bed. 

And, just as he draws back the door to the dormitory hall, he starts at the chorus of whispers that crashes over him.  The sounds are harsh and discordant, biting almost.  And, he swears he detects a few stray glances flung in his direction. 

Instinctively, he glances back, but he is the only one entering the hallway.  In fact, he is the only one outside the huddled mass of students that gather in the middle of the floor.

 _Mail, already?_ he wonders to himself. 

Sure enough, some of the students are clenching decorative papers with fine calligraphy scrawling down the page.  Other students clutch parcels and brown packages to their chest.  But, the intrigue does not _appear_ to be over the mail itself, which usually causes enough panic on its own.

“Renji Abarai?” the courier, a small boy who strains his entire body to see over the throng of students, shouts above the ruckus.  “Renji Abarai?” he calls again.

Renji stares incredulously ahead.  Did he just hear that right?  Did the mail boy just call _his_ name?  Who the hell does he know that would send him _mail_?  He hasn’t _applied_ for anything—no employment positions or extracurricular activities.  Class alone keeps him busy.

So, what the hell?

“Renji Abarai?” the small boy cries again.

Renji takes a small step forward.  Is this some sort of joke?  Ha, ha, give the poorest kid in the class _mail_?  If so, that seems pretty childish, but Renji doesn’t put much past his classmates.  Not the noble ones, anyway.

“Renji?”

With heart firmly lodged in his throat, Renji wades through the curious onlookers, and he prepares for the _worst_.  “I am he,” he manages to find his voice.

“A package,” the courier announces, handing over a finely wrapped parcel. 

The package feels light in his hands, and, as he stares down at the seal, he _feels_ everyone staring down with him. The whole room suddenly feels lopsided, as if it is _tilting_ toward him.

He ignores the burning of a thousand eyes against his neck and back.  He even pushes aside the sensation of being scrutinized as he studies the package.  An intricate family crest adorns the wrapping, but he is benighted when it comes to such things.  Everyone else, however, instantly seems to know what the crest means. 

He can almost _feel_ the air pressure drop in response, which makes his bewilderment all the worse.  Furrowing his brow, he gives a clumsy nod of his head to the mail boy.  “Thanks,” he says, shrugging.  “Who’s it from?”  

The courier suppresses a smile, but the onlookers are not as generous. 

A loud guffaw sweeps across the room, and he is sure that the new refrain of whispers is more caustic and censorious than the last.  He brushes it off with little shame, having slowly become accustomed to his startling lack of knowledge on everything Seireitei.  If it wasn’t for Izuru and Momo, he would wander the Academy in a constant cloud of confusion.

“It is the Kuchiki kamon that affixes this package, sir,” the boy answers respectfully.

Renji feels each muscle spring back like loaded rubber bands ready to snap.  His tongue swells in his mouth, and his breath blows cold and sharp against his throat.  He can barely move.  His limbs feel leaden, and his senses numb, making even walking difficult.  He nearly drops the parcel as he tries to make his hands work properly.   

 _Why?_   It is the only word or thought he can muster in response.  Why would Rukia send him _anything_?  Has nobility turned her cruel, too? 

His stomach churns as he moves toward his room, nearly mowing down his fellow students in the process.  Didn’t Izuru say that Rukia _knew_ not to acknowledge him?  She is in a different stratosphere now.  A whole ‘nother class.

_So, why?_

Reasons assail his brain as he shuts the door behind him.  None of them is particularly _good_.  Most of them are incredibly painful even to consider, and he has yet to peel back the wrapping.

“I should wait,” he murmurs to himself as he stares into the packaging, searching for meaning hidden in the details. However, he cannot turn his attention away from it.  The intricate lines of the Kuchiki family crest beguile him, tempt him even.  Part of him wants to rip the seal off and shred it.  Just the seal.  Another, _deeper_ , part of him is horrified of what the package contains.  Is it even from Rukia?  Could it be from the family?  Maybe it is some sort of waiver or contract?

“Open it,” Izuru murmurs as he draws back the door.

Renji’s head snaps up at the sound of his friend’s voice.

“I heard the commotion,” Izuru explains, holding open the door long enough for Momo to enter.

“You received mail from your friend!” she calls excitedly, moving to Renji’s left while Izuru stands to his right.

All eyes focus on the parcel. 

“What do you think it is?” Renji asks, eying Izuru and then Momo.

“Why don’t you open it?” Izuru repeats slyly.

“I’m sure it is nice,” Momo says.  Her eyes brighten with anticipation.  Clearly, she thinks it is _good_ news.  Of course, she would, Renji muses.  Hope springs eternal for Momo.

Izuru, however, seems slightly more guarded as he inspects the package’s dimensions.  “Is there a card?” he inquires before Renji tears into the wrapping.

“Ugh?” Renji murmurs.  How would he know?  Are there usually cards?

“Here,” Momo says, releasing the Kuchiki kamon.  “I think this is it,” she murmurs, handing it to Renji. 

Before anyone has a chance to inspect it, Renji loosens an edge of the packaging and rips it open.  Smooth silk slides out, and his eyes go wide. 

“A kimono,” Izuru observes, approvingly. 

“Very nice, Renji!” Momo says, catching the fabric before it drapes to the floor. 

Renji observes it with a glare.  Tension builds in his body and contorts the lines of his features.  He doesn’t know quite what to think and is quick to interpret the pressure building in his head as negative emotion.  _Does she think she can buy me?  What is this?_

“Rukia has very good taste,” Momo compliments the design of the kimono.  “The fabric is so luxurious.”

“Rukia may have selected it,” Izuru observes, plucking the card from Renji's grasp, “but it was the Lady’s doing.” 

Renji shoots his friend a sidelong glance.  “What does that mean?”

“Do you think that, after a day, Rukia would feel comfortable spending a great sum of money without Lady Kuchiki’s blessing?” Izuru asks softly. 

Renji turns to Izuru.  His friend’s look is probing but not condescending.  Izuru asks the question in earnest.

Renji frowns.  “No,” he responds.

“Do you think the gift is actually from the Lady?” Momo asks, cocking her head at the idea.  It doesn’t seem too far-fetched, at least from Momo’s perspective.

“Most probably,” Izuru says, proffering the card to Renji.  “The invitation to tea, however, is _absolutely_ at the Lady’s behest.”

Renji stares uncomprehendingly at the characters painted in black on the card.  _What?_   He cannot summon the intellect to interpret the words.  Not at that very moment, at least.

“Tea!” Momo chirps, “How lovely.  Lady Kuchiki is regarded as a very generous host.”

Izuru lifts his head.  “You have to go, Renji,” he says matter-of-factly.

Renji stares at Izuru.  His panic is clear, and, as it settles, he cannot find the words.  Any words, really, to express himself.

“No way around it,” Izuru adds and musters a sympathetic look.

“You should wear your new robes,” Momo encourages with a kind smile.

He _will_ _have to_ wear the new garment.  He has nothing else.  He certainly cannot go dressed in his uniform or, _worse yet_ , his Rukon yukata. 

“Of course,” he murmurs to himself. 

“Be careful, Renji,” Izuru warns.

. . . .

“Be careful, Lady Rukia,” the steward cautions as they cross over a loose floorboard. 

“Yes,” she mumbles softly, keeping her head bowed low and her eyes trained on the ground.  Despite knowing where the hazard lies, her footwear stubs the rickety board all the same.  The steward, however, is adroit for his age, and he grasps the top of her arm.

“It is treacherous,” he says soothingly, and he waits for her to regain her equilibrium.

She fashions a self-deprecating smile and nods.  “It is.”

“I will have it replaced immediately.  No need for anyone harming themselves on account of it,” he sighs to himself.  Likely, it is just _one more thing_ to which the servant must attend, Rukia observes.

“I don’t believe I know your name,” Rukia’s voice deepens a little, rising above the whisper that she has set for herself.  For some reason, she feels stifled by the sprawling manor.  It seems so large, but so empty.  Sound ricochets off the walls until its remnants become grander than its source.  Every footfall makes an echo.  Every word seems to penetrate deep into the manor as if the walls are made of thin sheets of tissue.  Briefly, she wonders if the servants can _hear_ her _thoughts_.  It seems entirely too plausible.

“Ah, I don’t believe I have shared it,” he says drily, and he flashes a small grin at her politeness.  “You make call me Minamoto, milady.”  He bows his head deeply. 

“Thank you, Mr. Minamoto.”  She repeats his name with a smile and bows. 

He nods his head approvingly then turns his attention to the sprawling garden as they cross the outdoor walkway.  “Lovely day,” he notes.

“Yes,” she is eager to agree.  The cherry and plum blossoms are spectacular.  In fact, _all_ the spring flowers are in full bloom, creating a diverse palette of color.  It is a breathtaking display yet she feels a restrained sort of joy as she sees it.  If she were in Inuzuri, she would be biding her time until the moment presented itself, and she would escape into the floral sanctuary.  But, then and there, she knows there will be no escaping or exploring.  The garden is merely a pleasant backdrop unless someone tells her differently.    

“The Lord and Lady have endeavored long and hard to revitalize the area,” he observes as they slowly amble toward what is now Rukia’s quarters.

“Oh?” she inquires, hoping he will indulge her.  Any shred of information, no matter how small, soothes her.  She doesn’t know much about this foreign place, but she is willing to learn its secrets.

“Yes.  After the current Lord’s father and mother passed, the garden became rather dull.  The past noble head rarely entertained or lodged at the manor during his days.”

“Oh,” Rukia says, trying to keep the steward talking.

“It was serene and tasteful then but lifeless in comparison to its present state.”

“Does Sister garden?”

The steward stares at Rukia as if she has gone mad.  “ _Absolutely not_.” 

Rukia’s large eyes grow to the size of saucers.  Apparently, _gardening_ is not something Ladies do.  Good to know, she muses. 

“Especially given her condition,” he elaborates.

“Her condition?” Rukia echoes.  She knows nothing of Hisana’s _condition_.  Her sister has all the appearance of a healthy woman.  Her eyes are bright.  Her hair is glossy and thick.  Her skin is pale, true, but it appears to be an appropriate shade for a noble woman.  She is a bit thin, perhaps, but, then, so are all the noble females at the Academy.

“Yes,” he says, shooting Rukia a dark look.  His voice goes quiet, and his cadence slows, “She is recovering nicely, however.”

“What happened?” A wrinkle forms between Rukia’s brows at the seriousness of the steward’s tone.  By the sound of it, it seems that her sister had been on death’s door only a short while ago. 

He gives a slow shake of his head.  “In time, milady.”

Rukia furrows her brow and glances nervously at the diverted stream.  ‘In time’?  _What does that mean?_

“The House will become more open in time,” he says, sliding back a panel to reveal a capacious room.  “Your chambers.”   

Rukia stares into her new bedroom, stunned.  “M-my-mine?”  It is so large.  Much larger than her Academy dorm-room and a hundred times nicer than any shelter she ever took in Inuzuri.  She can hardly believe her eyes.

The steward nods.  “Yes, milady.  Your quarters.”  He waits for her to cross the threshold before entering and closing the door behind them.  “You have your own bath and study as well,” he says, drawing back various doors.

Shock flattens her expression as she watches him retract a closet door.  “Your new kimono,” he says, gesturing to the garments carefully arranged in the space. 

“Yes,” she nods, gratefully.

“There are few rules here,” he says, pulling the door closed.  “Dinner is prepared promptly at eight-o’-clock every night.   When the Lord and Lady are in residence, they require absolute privacy unless an emergency arises.”

Rukia tilts her head and stares questioningly at this. 

Astutely reading her incredulous expression, the steward nods his head.  “If you have business with Lord Kuchiki, you will need to schedule an appointment beforehand.  I handle all of Lord Kuchiki’s social appointments.  Her Ladyship, however, insists that you are free to impose whenever you require her attention.”

Rukia swallows.  Hard.  “Yes,” she murmurs her understanding in a shaky breath.  Suddenly the air becomes thick and hard to breathe.  The idea of such formality begins to suffocate her, and it pulls at the strings of her own doubt.  If these are the rules that he remembers to divulge, then what about all the rules that he assumes she already knows?  Her eyes go wide at the very thought.

“Lady Kuchiki is often away on family business,” he says, careful to unearth the flaw in his Lady’s logic:  If she is away on duty, then Rukia cannot possibly impose _whenever_ she desires.  “And Lord Kuchiki is often unavailable due to family business and division responsibilities.”

“Of course,” she says, nodding.  Then, she immediately wracks her brain in an attempt to remember _which division_ hosts Lord Kuchiki.  _Nothing_.  She comes up with _nothing_ in her memory banks.  

“Your schedule is also very full for the time being.”

Rukia flinches.  Wait.  What?  _She has a schedule?_   Since _when_?

“You look surprised,” he chuckles.  “I take it Lady Kuchiki did not inform you of your duties?”

Rukia does not move.  She stands perfectly still and perfectly dumbfounded.

He tucks his chin to his neck and gives her a fatherly onceover.  “You have intensive tutoring this year before you assume a position at the Thirteenth.”

Her brows lift in surprise.  “The Thirteenth?”  She nearly chokes on her own spit.

He nods.  “Train hard and learn your lessons well, milady.  In a year’s time, you will take the officer’s test, which will determine your rank at the Thirteenth.”

“The Thirteenth?” she repeats again.  Shell-shocked.  She feels shell-shocked.  Her stomach flutters, twists, and turns, and her brain begins to flicker.    

She can hardly believe it.  She has not done anything yet.  Nothing.  She has not earned her way to the Thirteenth.  If she were still at the Academy, she would have to claw and fight her way to a position among _any_ of the divisions.  Yet, now, it is handed to her like a consolation prize.  Congratulations!  You’re a Kuchiki.  Here’s your division assignment, and a schedule.  Figure it out.

“Your training commences at six-o’-clock tomorrow morning, beginning with kido.”

She nods feverishly.  “Yes.  Kido.”  Kido is good.  She likes kido.  Actually, she is pretty talented at kido.

“I will make sure you receive your weekly schedule in a timely manner.  You will receive this week’s schedule tonight.”

“Thank you.”  She can barely focus on the words coming out of his mouth now.  Her ears fill with static, and her heart thunders in her chest.  Everything is so hard to process.

“If you require anything, do not hesitate to let any of the servants know.”

“Yes, thank you.”

He bows low.  “Is there anything milady desires at the moment?  Tea?  Food?”

“Tea?” she asks, not quite knowing how to make a request.

He smiles at her politeness.  “Of course, milady.”

. . . .

“Of course it _had_ to start raining,” Hisana laughs, reaching for her husband’s hand as she steps onto the outdoor walkway. 

They are drenched to the bone.  Layers of fabric cling indecently to their forms as they move toward the bedchamber door.  Without a second thought, she yanks him close against her, and her hands travel from his arms to his sash.  Her fingers bunch in the material as they work at loosening the knot.

Realizing _what_ she is doing and, more importantly, _where_ they are, his hands fly down to hers.  He stares at her questioningly, but either shock or propriety steels his tongue.  However, she reads his unspoken sentiments loud and clear.

“We can’t go inside sopping wet,” she chuckles.  “We will ruin the floors.”

His eyes go wide, and his hands cup her own.  His touch is restrained, but her fingers go still all the same. 

“There is no one around,” she reasons, smiling up at him.  She means to soothe his tortured look, but her gaze comes off too devious.  And, perhaps, she is feeling rather devious at that moment.  “No one will see us,” she whispers.  Her eyes dart to the garden before making a pass over the walkway.   Even if someone _was_ wandering the estate grounds, the rain pours down in such heavy sheets that it practically secures their privacy.

Before he has a chance to protest, she tears apart his knot.  Feeling the slack in his robes, her smile widens, and she never once breaks eye contact. 

“Hisana,” he murmurs, trying his best to sound disapproving of her recklessness.  His voice, however, fails to convince her.  It wavers, and, as he drops his head down toward hers, she is sure she has won this particular battle of the wills.

Parting his robes, she bites her bottom lip as her hands feel for the next knot.

“This is improper,” he scolds half-heartedly. 

“Nothing I do is proper, milord,” she murmurs teasingly and shoots him a wolfish look.  “I am a bad influence.”  The phrase is one of the Kuchiki elders’ favorite ways to describe her character and her effect on their young lord.  She shoves aside the memory of a _particular aunt_ howling those exact words at her only recently, and she unknots another tie. 

Her hand glides under his under-robes, and she fixes him with a look.  His skin is slick from the rain, but it is warm and smooth.  Her smile dims as her palms glide up his chest and toward his broad shoulders.  She loosens the silk adhering to his body, and her heart starts in anticipation.  But, before she can appreciate the sight of him, she feels his hands against her waist.  He fumbles with her obi for a moment before pushing her against the outside wall of their bedroom.  His lips press fast against hers. 

Eagerly, she deepens the kiss while easing the wet fabric over his shoulders.  “ _This_ is improper,” she teases him between kisses.

Lifting her slightly against the wall, he pins her hips.  “You’re a bad influence,” he repeats her words sardonically back to her.

 _Yes, I am_ , she thinks as she feels his hands yank her layers of silk apart.  She holds her breath, waiting for the spark of pleasure.

Somehow, someway, between fighting with the heavy wet silks and love-making, the two find their way to the dry warmth of the bed.  Spent with limbs tangled together, the couple basks in the warm oranges and reds of dusk as it floods into their bedroom from the partially opened door.  Languidly, Hisana rests her head against his shoulder, and she relishes the musky smell of her husband and the warmth of his arms around her as she absently draws small circles on his chest with her fingertips.  His muscles jump up if her touches become too light or fluttery, and she smiles to herself.  A few long tranquil moments pass before thoughts, noisy and unpleasant, begin to dance in her head.

Closing her eyes, she searches for a distraction. “What is your schedule like tomorrow?” she asks, glancing up into his face.

He is perfectly still.  His eyes are closed.  His breathing is quiet. Not a stitch of emotion marks his face.  And, momentarily, she wonders if he is asleep.  His heart, however, betrays him.  She hears it speed its pace as she adjusts her body against his.

He opens his eyes tiredly.  “I have a tea with Jūshirō in the morning.  In the afternoon, I have a patrol, and then…”  He doesn’t say it.  Perhaps he can’t bring himself to think it after today, but she knows what his intention is all the same.  He will train for hours with Senbonzakura.  His trainings have become more frequent and more violent as of late, and she worries for his sake.

“ _And then_ dinner with your wife,” she subverts his meaning with a bright smile. 

Byakuya glances down at her. His eyes are soft and quiet.  No sadness or pain lingers in his stare now that she returns to her old healthy self.  But, she can tell that he is searching her, looking for signs of illness and traces of his family’s treachery.  Satisfied with whatever he finds or doesn’t find, he tucks her head under his chin, and he inhales a deep breath.  “Your day tomorrow?” he asks in a choppy shorthand.

“I have a meeting with Sir Shiba and Lord Shihōin.  Then, I have tea with _your aunt_.  Afterward, I have a tea with my sister, and—”

“A meeting with the Shiba and the Shihōin?” he echoes.

She can tell by the way that his body shifts against hers that she has some explaining to do.  “Yes,” she says, fighting back the urge to _flinch_ , “we are meeting to discuss a _renovation_ project.  If it turns out to be worth the effort, we might draw up a proposal to present at the next meeting of the Five Families.”

He inhales a deep breath, and she knows he is parsing her words in an attempt to find her exact meaning.  By the even deeper exhalation, she knows that he is dissatisfied with her purposefully evasive language.  “A renovation project?” he murmurs incredulously.  

He does not believe her. Not for a second.  But, he has no testable hypothesis as to _what_ she intends to do, which means he will dissect every word that slips from her lips.

“To revitalize parts of the Rukon districts,” she replies, turning her head so she can better see him.  He watches her with an apprehensive if not slightly bemused expression. 

“And you are seeking investments from the Konoe and Takatsukasa clans?” 

Doesn’t even attempt to hide the fact that he is skeptical of her purposes, she observes ironically to herself.  But, the question is a valid one:  Why else would she make a proposal at the meeting if not to elicit financial support? 

“Perhaps.”

His brows rise at this, and he smirks at her.  “It is unlikely that the Takatsukasa will be moved by your pleas to noblesse oblige.”

She is swift to capitalize on his omission.  “But you think the Konoe Family will?”

His eyelids droop down upon observing the enterprising look that flashes across her visage.  “If Tadahiro is present, perhaps.”  Byakuya’s expression goes cold, and his body tenses as he contemplates the possibility more deeply.  His eyes, once so warm and gentle, become sharp and piercing as he stares into the dusk.  “Be careful making arrangements with him, Hisana."

She is sure she feels his arms tighten around her as he speaks, and she is certain that it is subtle reflex on his part.  But, his subtle reflexes expose more than words ever could. “Yes, milord,” she murmurs against his chest.


End file.
